to be lit up from within
vein by vein
If Iskra had questioned her notions at all, she likely would’ve balked and backed away. Taken another step on some other day. Forged something else entirely. Never really looked into the face of sparks and trauma; because that’s what she’d always done. Much more rational, in her volatile, fickle, and temperamental mind, to focus on the forward lines in the sand, to not drift backwards and aloof in what she couldn’t change. Except this was an endeavor etched and marked and sketched into her blood like a fortress, and she couldn’t climb over it without some strong, determined bout of stubbornness and clambering head-on. But revisiting an old wound was not a Melita trait, and Iskra must’ve already seen the hesitation rise and bubble up again. A snowman was something concrete though. Tangible. “Of course,” she grinned, a little back to old form, as if the idea had always been there instead of opportunistic and grasping for anything. “And obviously,” she snorted at his inquiry, mildly insulted (because all of hers had looked like shit and so too this one would follow suit), but the brazen, haughty manner could cover up all the vulnerabilities she suddenly felt lingering over her skin.
Much like many of her other haphazard targets, her intention wasn’t to make an exact replica. The whole point was to embody her opponent, or at least Sah’s effigy – enough to segment and pulverize and beat down while conquering those deep, pressed-down strains. He likely wouldn’t be surprised by the quick, swift, and impatient measures as she pressed pockets of snow together into slighted means – the only characteristic that might’ve even embodied Sah was the purposefully stuck-up hair and bewildered look on his face – made with tiny rocks and pebbles. “There. See. Just like him.”
to be the sun
MELITA
